


Scars

by SeeEmRunning



Category: Leverage, Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2736038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeEmRunning/pseuds/SeeEmRunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam meets Eliot at a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for months, and I'm not sure why I never posted it.

There was a stranger in their bar.

Not the most unusual occurrence, true, but the way he was holding himself and how he'd taken the only seat in the room to see every entrance and exit _was_. Eliot knew hardness when he saw it, and the stranger didn't have much left that was soft. He wasn’t the kind of man to stroll into a bar and nurse a single beer for two hours - and yes, he'd counted.

And if he'd started watching because the guy was hot as hell, that was his business.

"Parker," he said softly, "tell Nate and the others to be on guard."

"Will do. Why?"

"Don't look, but the man in the back right. Long brown hair. Something's off."

Parker stretched and casually stole a glance. "Reminds me a little of you."

"That's why I'm worried."

"He's staring. And smiling."

"Go," Eliot said. Smiles on a man like that were never good.

"Fine, fine. I'm going." She ghosted off with a thief's grace. Eliot remained where he was, rolling his beer bottle between his fingers and sneaking glances at the stranger when he thought he could get away with it. Ten minutes later, the man finished his beer, left the empty on the table, and went through the door separating the bathrooms from the bar itself.

"Problem?" Nate asked when Eliot rejoined them.

"Don't know," he said. "Maybe, maybe not. But after that last con, better to be careful, don't you think?"

"Hardison," Nate said.

"Man, c'mon, why do you assume I-"

"Don't you?"

Hardison's mouth pinched, and he looked down, shaking his head. A moment later he extended his right hand, in which rested their earpieces.

"Not very subtle," a new voice said mildly, and Eliot turned. The stranger smiled crookedly. "Felt eyes on me the moment I walked in," he continued.

Eliot stood. The stranger was an inch or two taller than he was, and held himself in a way that it was immediately apparent he was well trained. If he was a problem, he would be a _problem_.

"So why'd you stay?" Nate asked.

The stranger shrugged, making his blue-plaid shirt ripple. "Felt like company. You look like regulars, so lemme just ask - you know where I can find a drugstore around here?"

They gave him directions, and he left.

He returned the next night, and the next, each time drinking a single beer over the course of several hours. Eliot didn't know if he'd returned for the fourth night in a row; he was too busy cracking skulls in Oklahoma.

He was there the fifth night, though this time he was perched on a bar stool talking to Cora. "Hey, Eliot," she called when she saw him.

"Hey, Cora," he said with a small wave.

"Where are the others?"

"Oh, they went back home." Eliot slid onto a stool next to the stranger. "I just wanted a drink."

Cora pulled out the whiskey and poured him a glass. She left the bottle when she went to serve someone else, and Eliot took the opportunity to study the stranger in more detail. There was a fine scar running down his hairline, and a freshly-stitched wound on his arm - neither of which did anything to mar how attractive he was. Damn it. "So who'd you piss off?" he asked casually.

That startled a laugh out of the stranger. "Some idiots tried to mug me. They got a lucky shot."

"Neat stitching, though, where'd you get 'em done?"

"County General."

Eliot frowned. "There's no County General in Boston."

"Caught me. Did 'em myself."

Eliot shook his head. "Eliot Spencer."

"Sam Frampton."

"So what brings you to Boston, Sam?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm a drifter. I drift. You?"

"I live here."

Sam's eyes tracked Eliot's arm as he sipped his whiskey. "That so."

"Yep."

"You've pissed off some people too, looks like."

"What?"

Sam nodded to his arms. "Pretty heavy knife fighting. That big one - machete?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

Sam smiled thinly and pulled his sleeve up further. "Oh-nine."

Eliot tapped the scar Sam had referenced. "Ninety-three. This other one, gift from the Triads."

"Cleaver, then? I have one of those here." Sam lifted his hair to show his neck. "Give me a fish knife any day."

Eliot laughed in spite of himself. "Seems like we've led pretty similar lives."

"Seems like," Sam said, mouth twitching.

They swapped stories behind their scars for a while, slowly letting down their guards and giving more details. Eliot showed him the ones on his legs from his time in Somalia; Sam showed him the long ones on his arms that looked like a suicide attempt, though he swore he'd just gotten in the way of a home invasion in Kansas. Eliot made up his mind.

"Last call!" Cora yelled.

"Oh, damn. Didn't realize it was that late." Sam stood. "I still need to find a room for tonight, maybe the motel's got one left."

"Come with me instead," Eliot said. "I'll show you some of my more… _interesting_ scars."

Sam examined him for a moment. "That sounds like it could be fun," he said at last.

Eliot counted out a few bills to pay for his drinks and led the way out. "Where's your car?" Eliot asked. Sam pointed at an old-style motorcycle. "That looks like it's from the fifties," he said disbelievingly.

"That's because it is," Sam said dryly. "Lead on, friend Eliot."

Eliot led him through the streets of Boston. Sam kept up pretty easily, and they were at his apartment in under ten minutes.

The moment they were inside, Eliot was stripping. Sam followed his lead. "This one," Eliot said, tracing a thick, ropy scar on his chest. "Croatia. We were liberating it. That looks like a burn."

"It was," Sam said, poking at the scar tissue under a pentagram tattoo. "That is my brother's legacy. You should see the one on my back from the Hunger Games mock-up I got stuck in a few years ago."

"I have just the place to look," Eliot said, leading him to the bedroom.

Sam laid face-down on the bed. Eliot ran a hand over the scar. "Looks like it should have paralyzed you. Or killed you."

"I got lucky. He caught the vertebra, not the disc, and the knife wasn't sharp enough to get through."

"Damn. Hunger Games, you said?"

"Yeah. Groups of four. Got grabbed, woke up in town, told that if we won we'd leave and if we lost our families were dead."

"Damn. You nail 'im?"

"Yep." Sam popped the 'P' at the end. Eliot pressed down just hard enough, and Sam bit his lip so he wouldn't groan.

Eliot grinned. This was too good - Sam was sensitive, willing, and tough enough to keep up with him. Not that was particularly _rough_ , but he was a strong guy, and he always had to be careful. He felt himself chubbing up, and he leaned down to tease a long scar on Sam's shoulder blade with his mouth.

Sam rolled underneath him and shifted to sit up - that took some serious ab work, and Eliot knew it. "C'mere," he murmured, reaching for Eliot's fly.

Eliot reached down to do the same, noting that Sam's jeans were frayed and worn. Half the belt loops were hanging off, and some were completely missing. "You need new jeans."

"Job doesn't pay well enough. Hard enough to find pants my size anyway."

"I can see that," Eliot said. "Get up."

Sam rolled to his feet without a problem. "You pitch or catch?"

Somalia came back in a flash. "Pitch."

Sam smiled at him and pulled down his boxers. "All right, then."

Eliot grabbed lube and a condom from the drawer on his bedside table. "Lay on your stomach."

Sam did as he was told, eyes bright and interested - but also a little calculating, a little nervous. He was waiting for it to go bad. Eliot couldn't really blame him; scars told stories, and every torturer in the world used the same tools to break men. It was why Eliot didn't bottom when he was with a man, and he never made plans with a woman into pegging.

He was _very_ aware of the damage that could be done like this, and from the look of it Sam was too.

"All right," Eliot said, straddling him. They were both hard, now, and he leisurely slid his dick between Sam's thighs while he lubed up a finger. Sam hitched a leg so he had a better angle and gripped the sheet.

It didn't take long to open him up, and then Eliot was shifting to slide himself inside Sam's ass. It started out slow and gentle, but it didn't stay that way. They were both fighters, and it was a treat for both of them to not need to hold themselves back, to give as good as they got and not worry about causing serious harm.

When Eliot finally groaned, Sam flipped so he was straddling him and leaned forward, bracing himself on the bed beside Eliot's arms. He rolled his hips and _squeezed_ ; Eliot groaned, grabbed Sam's waist hard enough to bruise, and slammed him down like a rag doll while he shook and grunted and came into the condom. Sam grabbed a tissue from the nightstand, jerked himself, and came.

After a few seconds, he gingerly pulled himself off and collapsed, holding the tissue in his hand. "Damn," he mumbled.

"I know the feeling," Eliot said when he caught his breath. He stood with a decidedly un-sexy groan and headed for the bathroom to clean himself off.


	2. Chapter 2

Eliot was woken by a phone call the next morning. "What?" he mumbled.

"We have your team," a rough voice said.

 _That_ got him awake. "What?"

That woke up Sam, too, who wisely kept quiet when he saw Eliot on the phone.

"We have your team," the man on the phone said. "Warehouse 13 on the docks. Come alone, no police. One million in unmarked non-sequential bills. You have two hours."

_Click._

"What's that about?" Sam asked.

Eliot ignored him and vaulted out of bed to get to his laptop. "Come on, come on," he muttered.

"Okay," Sam said. "You gonna tell me, or…?"

"No," Eliot snapped.

Sam picked up Eliot's cell phone. "Unlisted number. Who was it and how bad?"

"What?" Eliot snapped, distracted from his attempt to get into the warehouse district's camera system.

"Nobody's that pissed after a phone call unless someone's getting killed. Who is it, and how bad?"

"No idea. They have my team in a warehouse."

"Need some extra muscle?"

Eliot did a double-take. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," Sam said. He padded over to lean over the computer. "Hacking the cameras?"

"Trying to."

"Mm. Up. You get yourself ready, I'll get the cameras. What am I hacking?"

"Boston PD, warehouse district. Number thirteen."

"Thirteen," Sam muttered, typing hurriedly. "Here...we...go. All right, backing it up, and - there. Time stamp has it at four-sixteen, and it is five-eighteen now. Had 'em just over an hour."

"Good," Eliot said distractedly. "How many?"

"Twelve walking them in - what do you _do_ that they put a dozen guys on four people? Hang on, I'm gonna see if...yeah, another camera inside. They have a good firewall, might take me a little bit to crack it."

"Put some clothes on first. They gave me an hour to get a million dollars."

"An - an _hour?_ For a _million?_ Fuck, dude. Either they want an excuse to kill you all or you're in a _very_ lucrative business."

"Yeah, yeah, just get dressed. I got a plan."

"Go in, crack some skulls, get your friends back?"

"Little more complicated. You won't like it."

"Tell me anyway."

Eliot did. Sam didn't like it.  
***  
"So who's this guy?" one of the thugs asked. "Not your last little member."

Parker frowned. He'd been in the bar the night before talking with Eliot. He wasn't quite so handsome now with blood pouring down his face.

"Isaw you guys," he slurred. "Thought it'd - it'd gemme some - some, uh, whazzit, the green shit-"

"Money?" Parker asked.

"M'ney, thaz it. Ransom, right? S'gonna be a lot, for four. Thought I'd take you out, pose azza c'lecter."

"Why'd you think that would work? We have two dozen men!"

"Tennow. T'kout - ferteen on m'way in."

"No you didn't."

"Checkin. Wither - With yer walkies."

The thug looked suspicious, but raised the radio to his mouth. "Report."

"One here."

"Two here."

"Three here."

"Five here."

"Six here."

"Seven here."

"Nine here."

"Wait," the thug interrupted. "Where's four? And eight?"

"Tolya," the new hostage said, sounding satisfied through what was probably a nasty concussion.

A moment later, the thug's fist landed on the new man's cheek. His head snapped back, a spray of blood catching the faint light as it arced out of his mouth and onto the floor.

"Little violent there, aren't cha?" Hardison asked.

"Shut up," the thug snapped. 

The new one spat blood on his shoes. Parker caught a glint of metal as one of the new man's handcuffs slid off. The next fist that headed toward the stranger was caught, and the man slammed a leg between the thug's. The thug got a fist slammed into his face, then underneath his chin. He dropped.

"I love pressure points," the new man said, spraying blood as he spoke.

"You were supposed to wait," a new voice said.

Eliot's friend looked up at the railing. "Figured it'd be faster with both of us fightin'." There was no trace of a slur now.

"How'd you even get out of the cuffs?"

He grinned and held up the hand out of the cuffs. "Dislocated thumb."

"Ew. Gross," Parker said.

"Yeah, yeah." He reached into his pocket. "Now, though, I have this."

"Paperclip," Parker said. "Nice."

"Yeah," he said, and knelt behind her chair.

"That was fast," she said a minute later. "So. Name?"

"Sam. You?"

"Parker."

"How'd you get roped into all this?" Nate asked.

"Eliot and I met a few years ago. Found him in the bar last night. He called me this morning and asked for help."

"Eliot asked for help? Eliot?"

"Don't look so happy, Hardison, you know how I am with the tech stuff."

Hardison's cuffs clicked off, then Sophie's. Nate's were last.

"How bad?" Eliot asked while he worked.

"Mild concussion, I think. I'm not so good with judging pain anymore, not after Kansas."

"What happened in Kansas?" Sophie asked.

"You've heard some of my stories," Eliot intervened. "Let's not ask Sam about his."

"Yeah, but Kansas," Parker said. "What's even in Kansas?"

"You'd be surprised," Sam said grimly. "All right, let's get you all out of here."

"I'm driving your bike," Eliot said as the six of them headed toward the exit.

"No you're not."

"You've got a concussion."

"So?"

"So I'm not letting you drive with a concussion." Sam stumbled and fell into the wall. "See, that, right there? That's why you're not going to drive."

"Got his keys," Parker said, dangling them from one finger.

"How…? No. No, I'm not even going to ask, because then you'll answer and I might have to kill you. Not asking."

"Good boy," Sophie said.

Sam gave her a weird look. "Not a dog."

He underscored that statement by tripping and falling on his face. "All right," Eliot said, pulling him up and getting his arm around a shoulder. "You're done walking on your own. Sure it's just a mild concussion?"

"No."

"Great," he muttered. "You're crazy, you know that?"

"Not institutionalized."

"Stop talking," Eliot said. "Soon as we get out of here, we're triaging you, and if I say hospital-"

"I go find a motel room," Sam finished. "I've honestly had worse."

"If you're with Eliot," Nate said, "'had worse' doesn't mean much."

"It means very little to me, too," Sam admitted. "But I'm really fine."

Eliot passed him off to Nate and Hardison when they made it into the predawn light, then loped off to Sam's bike. Nate pointed at the panel vans they'd probably been brought in and bundled Sam into the backseat. He slumped into the seat and closed his eyes, head pounding.

"So!" someone said brightly, and he opened his eyes to find the perky blonde inches away from his face. His first reaction was to punch, and only her quick reflexes and him realizing what he was doing saved her from a crushed throat. "How'd you meet Eliot?" she asked, apparently ignoring the fist.

Sam considered her. "High school," he said at last. "I was there for three weeks. He was the quarterback in home ec. What's your name again?"

"Parker. Ooh, do you think Eliot's going to cook?"

"I hope so," the black man said. "Man's got a gift."

"Sorry, you're - Harrison?"

"Hardison," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Right. So, you want to tell me why a mixed group of CIA, FBI, and NSA decided to kidnap you?"

"How'd you know who they were?" the British woman asked from her spot in the front seat.

"They fought like it."

"You identified a bunch of guys by their fighting styles?" Nate asked skeptically.

"They're very distinctive styles," Sam said. "I had the pleasure of taking out an FBI SWAT team a few years ago. Run into the CIA and NSA at...various points of my life." He chose his words carefully. Some of the hunters he'd trained with, or just plain trained, had been former government agents, though he'd never gotten caught by CIA or NSA. The SWAT team had been at the bank with the shifter. "So. What the hell do you do?"

"We expose corruption," Nate said. "Get victims compensation for the deaths of their families."

"And that gets you enough for them to think Eliot could rustle up a million dollars in an hour?"

"Yep," Parker said, sounding satisfied.

"We work on an alternative revenue stream," Nate said. "We don't take money from the victims - we take it from the corporations. Here we are."

Sam looked outside to see the same bar he'd been in the night before. "The bar?"

"Yeah. Our offices are right above it. Come on," Nate said, opening the door. Parker opened the side door, and she and Hardison were first out. Sam followed slowly, feeling his leg protest. 

Hardison ducked under his shoulder to support his weight. "Leg hurt?"

Sam nodded. "One of them got in a lucky shot," he said darkly.

"You've been shot?" the British woman asked.

"Just a graze. Not too bad," he said dismissively.

"Right," Nate said, looking vaguely suspicious. "Let's get you upstairs, then."

They dragged him to their office, which turned out to be a fucking huge apartment. Eliot was already waiting with a field medic's kit laid out on the counter. "Sit down and take your shirt off," he ordered, pointing to a stool.

Sam did as he was told. When he shrugged off his button-down, Parker gave a low whistle. "That's some bruising."

Sam looked down. "God, I can't _remember_ the last time I was this color," he mumbled, poking at a greenish bruise on his stomach.

Eliot swatted his hand away. "Anything broken?"

"Rib or two, maybe. I'll wrap 'em up-"

" _I_ will wrap them," Eliot said firmly. "Other than the bruises and the ribs, where are you hurt?"

"His leg got shot," Hardison said.

"It was a _graze_ ," Sam said. "I've had worse."

"Like what?" Eliot asked, challenge in his eyes.

Sam pointing to the circular scar on his shoulder. "Forty-five. Took out the bullet, cleaned it, sewed it up with dental floss. No painkiller but whiskey."

"Who did the stitches?" Sophie asked.

"I did," he said flatly.

"That means we don't trust your pain assessment," Eliot said bluntly. "Pants off, lemme see the graze."

Sam scowled and stood, shoving his jeans down his legs so Eliot could get to the outside of his thigh. At least he hadn't gone commando.

"Burn," Eliot said, and poured isopropyl alcohol down the site of the wound. Then he picked up a syringe and pulled off the cap.

"The fuck is that?" Sam asked nervously.

"Lidocaine."

Sam gaped at him. "You have _lidocaine?_ "

"You don't?" Eliot asked, and shoved the needle into his thigh. "Let me just sew this up for you, and you'll be good."

"I'll start breakfast," Sophie said.

"No!" everyone but Sam yelled.

"I'll cook when I'm done here," Eliot said. "Sam deserves to be fed after this morning."

Breakfast was the best meal he'd had in probably his entire life. When they broke up, Sam joined Eliot and muttered, "Got plans this morning?"

"Not really, why?"

Sam smiled. "Thought I might repay you for the best breakfast of my life."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Sam smiled darkly. "You thought last night was good, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

"Can't wait," Eliot said.


End file.
